As mentioned in the #MondayMorningMusic featuring I Wanna Dance with Somebody by Whitney Houston, I started clubbing at an extremely young age. Of course, I did more age-appropriate things than not (if you count having the HUGE city of Frankfurt, Germany as my playground – that’s an entirely different story) but I loved dancing.
After we moved from Frankfurt to Ft. Knox, Kentucky, it took a bit to get settled in (two words: culture shock) but my brother started DJing at an under 21 club (which was a laser tag venue during the day, so there were lots of cool cubbies and nooks and shadowy places in which to dwell) in Louisville and he used to schlep me and the other KP, out for all-nighters, which I couldn’t do unless I was with him. (I also didn’t have my license, so driving myself was an impossibility).
Anyway, somewhere along the way I started dating a guy named Jeff S., who I met at the under-21 club. After I turned 18 and he turned 21, we had to find another place to go since he couldn’t go to our usual dancing spot. As such, my first adult club was a gay bar. I quickly learned to love it – I could dance to fantastic music, flirt shamelessly without anyone taking advantage, and just be myself.
Fast forward months later when Jeff and I parted ways due in part to my move to Florida and the fact that I was a horrible bitch to him (seriously – how I treated him resulted in a long stretch of bad relationship karma. I would have apologized profusely long ago if I knew where to find him. He was a great guy!)
Anyway, after I made a few friends in a town that was, at the time, made up of mostly retirees (a fate worse than death when I was an 18-year-old freak with a penchant for black clothing, black eyeliner, and red lipstick… lol) I got dragged to a small, hole-in-the-wall-if-there-ever-was-one gay bar called, “Scores”. It’s been out of business for years, but lots of fun was had before it closed down.
One night a gentleman, whose name escapes me, and who is long-since deceased, insisted we foxtrot to Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love.” I protested – mostly because I had no idea how to foxtrot – any sort of ballroom dancing type stuff was (and still is) way out of my comfort zone. He laughed, swung me on to the dance floor in a move worthy of Fred Astaire, and said, “Just follow my lead.”
For less than three minutes, the stars aligned and this one moment in time was absolute perfection. For less than three minutes, I did exactly what was asked of me without question. For less than three minutes, I felt like Ginger Rogers in a pair of combat boots and thrift store clothing, as he expertly led me across the dance floor.
The perfect moment threaded among the day-to-day imperfections.